Chapter 26: Wind Moves, Branches Sway, Difficult to Conceal Worries

The sunlight slowly climbed higher in the courtyard, shrinking the shadow of the orange tree into a shallow circle.

Chen Mo still sat on that small wooden stool, his back held perfectly straight, like a slender blade of grass about to be broken by the wind; clearly fragile, yet stubbornly refusing to bend.

The strength within his body was dissipating at a visible rate.

Even sitting still, he could feel his limbs growing heavy and stiff, inch by inch.

The dull ache in his chest was like cotton soaked in water, growing heavier and more obstructive, forcing him to deliberately slow his breathing just to barely suppress the urge to cough that threatened to rise at any moment.

He dared not move, dared not stand for long, dared not speak casually.

He could only slightly lower his eyes, focusing intently on a crack in the ground, pretending to be quietly lost in thought.

His mother walked lightly back and forth between the kitchen and the Main Room, tidying bowls and chopsticks, wiping the tabletop.

Every movement she made was extremely gentle, yet her gaze was like a thin, soft thread, constantly tethered to him.

From time to time, she would glance up at him, then quickly lower her head, acting as if nothing was amiss, but her brow remained faintly furrowed, and the worry in her eyes was so thick it couldn’t be dissolved.

The more she didn’t speak, the quieter she became, the more she endured, the heavier Chen Mo’s heart grew.

Some things, long ago, could no longer be hidden amidst the silence.

“Mo Zi,” his mother suddenly spoke softly, her voice kept very low, “There are apples inside. Should Mom peel one for you?”

He slowly raised his eyes and saw his mother standing at the doorway of the Main Room, her hands still damp.

Her expression held a trace of cautious probing.

She wanted to care for him, wanted to do something for him, but she was afraid of offending his pitiful desire to remain strong, so she could only approach him bit by bit in this most inconspicuous way.

Chen Mo gently shook his head, his voice faint and steady: “No need, Mom. I’m not hungry.”

His mother paused, not pressing further, but slowly walked over and sat down on another small wooden stool next to him.

Between them, there was less than a step of distance.

Yet it felt like they were separated by a thin sheet of paper that neither dared to pierce.

The courtyard instantly fell silent; there was only the rustling sound of the wind passing through the leaves and the faint crowing of chickens from afar.

His mother didn’t look at him; she just gazed out past the courtyard gate toward the winding path.

Her eyes were distant and empty, as if looking at scenery, or perhaps looking back at a time that could never be returned to.

Her profile under the sunlight appeared exceptionally frail.

Those few strands of white hair at her temples were painful to look at.

“When you were little, you always loved climbing this tree,” his mother suddenly spoke softly, her voice very light, as if talking to herself.

“Once you climbed up, you refused to come down. Your dad would stand below, hands outstretched, guarding you, afraid you would fall.

I would call from inside the house, calling you home for dinner, shouting until my throat was raw, and only then would you slowly and reluctantly climb down…”

She paused and let out a small, gentle laugh, but the amusement didn’t reach her eyes; instead, a faint bitterness surfaced.

“You were so small then, just a little thing, struggling to hug the trunk.

In the blink of an eye, you’ve grown so big.”

Chen Mo’s heart clenched violently.

A sour feeling instantly flooded his throat like a tide.

She remembered every small detail of his childhood clearly.

Every fall he took, every injury he suffered, every tantrum he threw, she remembered them all for him.

She revolved her entire life around him, watching him grow up, waiting for him to come home, waiting from black hair to white, from youth to old age.

And he, he couldn’t even give her a future of safety and health.

“Mom,” he spoke softly, his voice terribly hoarse.

“Yes?” His mother immediately responded, a hint of undetectable panic in her tone.

“I’m sorry.”

Three words, light as the wind, yet heavy as a mountain.

He didn’t say what he was sorry for, but they both understood.

Sorry for making you worry.

Sorry for making you anxious.

Sorry, I have to break my promise; I can’t stay with you until old age.

His mother’s shoulders suddenly trembled.

She quickly turned her face away, looking elsewhere, and raised a hand to gently wipe the corner of her eye, the movement so fast it was almost invisible.

When she turned back, the gentle smile was still fixed on her face, but her eyes were slightly red.

“Silly child, what nonsense are you speaking?” Her voice trembled slightly, but she tried hard to sound calm, “We are family; what is there to be sorry or not sorry about?

As long as you are safe, healthy, and well, Mom will be content with everything.”

She dared not acknowledge his words, dared not follow the direction he was leading.

She feared that if she responded, that thin layer of pretense would completely crack, and both of them would collapse on the spot.

She could only use the clumsiest method to push his words back, forcibly holding back the tears that were about to burst the dam.

The wind blew again, the leaves of the orange tree swayed gently, and the shadows danced wildly on the ground.

Chen Mo looked at his mother’s forced composure, at her reddened eyes, at her slightly trembling shoulders, and could not utter another word.

Saying anything more would be stabbing her heart.

He slowly lowered his head, staring once more at the crack in the ground, his long eyelashes concealing all the emotion in his eyes.

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fiercely forced them back, not daring to let a single drop fall.

He couldn’t cry.

He couldn’t cry in front of her.

He couldn’t let her see that the hope she desperately guarded was already shattered beyond recognition.

His mother also stopped speaking, sitting quietly beside him, accompanying him in silence.

No embraces, no comfort, no further questioning—only silent companionship.

But this companionship pierced the heart more deeply, felt heavier, and was more suffocating than any words.

She knew he was hiding something.

He knew she was enduring.

Both understood each other tacitly, maintaining the last shred of stability in the home with a gentle deception.

The sunlight grew warmer, the wind stirred the branches, and the light and shadow mottled the ground.

But the atmosphere in the courtyard was as heavy as a deep pool of water, almost suffocating.

Chen Mo sat there, motionless, like a silent statue.

His worries, already in the wind, in the light, in his mother’s all-seeing gaze, could no longer be hidden.

It was just that he was still holding on.

She was still waiting.

This long-overdue truth was still being desperately postponed.

Postponed until the day it could no longer be held back.